


second chances for sinners

by rageyasha (filthynebula)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community Service AU, Dagen is here now too, F/F, Strangers to Lovers, appearances by the M9 and some notable NPCs too, looking at you Dairon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:06:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29475930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthynebula/pseuds/rageyasha
Summary: Theft, public mischief, destruction of property, vandalism, trespassing, more theft, and some extortion to tie it all together. Beau thought she had quite the impressive rap sheet for a 20-year-old winemaker's daughter.Of her original 1,000 court-ordered hours of community service, only 100 hours remain when a new offender begins attending the program: a tall, brooding woman with a mane of black-and-white hair. There is something about her that pulls like a gravitational force, and Beau finds herself being drawn all too willingly into orbit.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha
Comments: 33
Kudos: 110





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> what was originally gonna be a bare-bones, plot-be-damned one shot has completely spiralled out of control into this.

Beau stabbed the pointed end of her trash picker into a particularly shiny snack wrapper. It had gotten caught in a small shrub on the side of the highway, fluttering fruitlessly in the wind until it had the misfortune of crossing her path. Now it hung like a stuck fish on the end of a spear. She turned and, like a neolithic hunter displaying a trophy, wove her catch in Caleb’s face.

“Would you look at that - I’m a natural.”

Caleb, her steadfast if surly companion during those long and worthless days, raised an eyebrow at her. “I would expect you to be very talented in the art of picking trash after doing it for nearly... how many hours has it been, exactly?”

Beau rolled her eyes, choosing not to deign him with an answer as she stuffed the trash picker into the garbage bag Caleb held out for her. She had to shake the picker rather violently in order to get the wrapper off the end of it. Once she did, she pulled the tool back out and surveyed the area of their day’s work.

She, Caleb, and four other unlucky souls were on garbage duty that day. They were on the edge of a skinny, two-lane highway that ran between some backwater towns that Beau had never had the misfortune of visiting. The land around them was wide open and flat, although a range of mountains teased the very edge of the horizon – a tantalizing escape from the monotony of the prairies. And the monotony of picking up trash.

The sun was beating down on them in full force. It made their already unenviable task even worse with the way it made the garbage smell fouler and turned their ugly, yellow, high-vis vests into wearable ovens. Sure, it was just a vest, but it was a vest that trapped the heat in and made Beau’s plain white shirt look like the winning entry in one of those wet t-shirt contests that she imagined only happened on spring break in Miami. She was thankful that she had thrown on a pair of ragged denim shorts before leaving the house. Her dark legs soaked up the warmth of the sun in a more pleasurable kind of way, like sunbathing on a sandy beach. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to make her forget the smell of the trash, the sweat coating her skin, or the watchful eye of her supervisor standing a short distance away.

Their supervisor that day was a stout, friendly, middle-aged woman named Lorena, who had a wide face and a mountain of wavy hair piled in a messy bun on the top of her head. She was Beau’s favourite of the three supervisors she’d worked with. Lorena actually talked to them, milling about between the six of them and chatting pleasantly with whoever seemed to be in a talkative mood that day. She carried a clipboard and wore the same kind of high-vis vest as the rest of them. She made eye contact with Beau, smiled pleasantly, and began wandering over towards her and Caleb.

“Beauregard.” Lorena called her name with genuine warmth. Beau was already leaning on her trash picker, preparing to dial up the charm.

“Lorena,” she replied sweetly. “I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve said it but you know you can call me ‘Beau’.”

Lorena laughed and made a swatting motion with her hand. “But I’ll keep calling you ‘Beauregard’, and around and around we’ll go. How are you and Mr. Widogast faring today? Shaping up to be a hot one, isn’t it?”

Caleb grumbled from someplace behind Beau. “We are a bit beyond ‘shaping up’, don’t you think?”

He was wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt underneath his vest. His scruffy reddish-brown hair was tied in a ponytail at the base of his neck. He was probably sweltering in the heat.

Lorena’s eyes passed over Caleb and she shook her head in amusement. Beau chuckled.

“Caleb’s a bit too peaky for the sunshine. Me though, I’m loving it – minus the sweat.” She gestured at her long, bare legs.

Lorena, who had grown wise to Beau’s overt nature over the hours she’d spent supervising her, didn’t take the bait but she let out a good-natured laugh all the same.

“Well, it’s a good thing Mr. Widogast only needs to survive another hour or so before we head back to town. Oh, for-,” she caught sight of something happening over Beau’s shoulder and began to take off in a hurry. “-Mr. Vanderwhal, the roadkill goes directly into the bags please-”

Beau snorted but didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to see what Vanderwhal was doing with the roadkill. Caleb clearly felt the same way as he sidled up next to her and gestured in the opposite direction. “Want to try that way?”

“We just came from that way.” At Caleb's disdainful look, Beau shrugged back at him. “Ok, sure, whatever.”

They walked along the edge of the highway back the way they had cleaned up earlier, towards the two vehicles that had brought them there. They sat parked along the side of the road, one a large white van and the other a white pickup truck. Both vehicles sported the logo of their town’s community centre: a green pine tree over a yellow circle with a thick baby-blue outline.

Caleb half-heartedly poked his trash picker at the ground as they walked. There wasn’t any garbage left that way – it was more likely that Caleb had just wanted to get away from the others for a bit. As they got closer to the cars, Beau fished around in her pocket for the truck keys. Caleb put his hand on her wrist, stilling her.

“You aren’t supposed to open the truck without Lorena, Beauregard.”

“Caleb, come on, I drove the damn thing here. I think it’s safe to say I’ve earned a little trust.”

When she felt them in her palm, she clicked the unlock button. The truck made a small beep, its taillights flashing for a moment. Caleb turned back to look towards the rest of their group before spinning back to Beau.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

Beau rolled her eyes at him as she reached for the crew cabin door. “Would you calm down? I’m getting us some water. There’s a flat behind the seat.”

She pulled the door open to reveal the back row of the truck. On the floor behind the front passenger seat was a flat of 24 plastic water bottles. Beau reached in and grabbed one for Caleb and one for herself. As she pulled her head out of the truck, she could hear a voice calling her name. Caleb groaned.

“Beauregard!”

Beau turned and saw Lorena jogging towards them. She wasn’t panicked, which was good, but she did look a bit less friendly than she had a few minutes earlier.

“What are you doing?” she asked tersely once she reached the truck.

Beau shrugged and raised the water bottles, one in each hand. “We were thirsty.”

Lorena closed her eyes briefly and let out a controlled sigh. “You know you aren’t allowed to open the truck without my supervision.”

Beau put on her best look of remorse. “I know, I know, but it’s so fu- freaking hot out. I got you one too-” she held out her hand and offered Lorena one of the waters. Lorena frowned.

“It pains me to say this, Miss Lionett, but you’d do well to remember that no one is above the rules here. Regardless of how long they’ve been a part of the program.”

“Yes, Ms. Montero,” Beau nodded, trading good humour for a more apologetic approach.

Lorena sighed again, a heavy, defeated kind this time, before she took the water bottle still dangling from Beau’s outstretched hand. “Alright. Lock it up, let’s go.”

With that, she turned and began heading back towards the rest of the group, no doubt to make sure none of the others had tried any shenanigans while her back had been turned.

“You heard the woman,” Beau told Caleb as she pressed the lock button and listened to the truck make a dutiful 'honk'. “’Lock it up’.”

Caleb narrowed his eyes at her. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to share that water bottle with me.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Beau replied as she began walking back up the highway. Behind her, she heard the sound of Caleb letting out a heavy sigh followed by his feet crunching on gravel.

“You know, you shouldn’t push them like that, Beauregard,” he told her once he caught up. “You’re _this close-_ ” he held up his hand, his thumb and forefinger almost touching, “-to being done with this. Why don’t you just keep your head down and finish the last of your hours in peace?”

Beau chuckled and reached over to Caleb, giving him a light slap on the back. “Because that’s not my style, man.”

Caleb grunted in response. They had almost reached the group when Beau spoke up again. She looked up at the sun and let the warmth wash over her face.

“One hundred hours, Caleb. One hundred measly hours to go.”

* * *

The deal was thus: Beau was allowed to drive the pickup truck back to the community centre so long as she followed the van’s route exactly. It was a privilege she’d earned around the 600-hour mark, when it had become clear to all the supervisors that she had no intention of peeling out of town and taking off in a cloud of dust. Still, some rules needed to be laid down, and so Beau could only access the vehicle while driving to and from the worksites, and she had to dutifully follow Lorena’s route all the way back to town, not even daring to change lanes unless the other woman did so first.

For all her earlier bluster about not keeping her head down, Beau sure as hell wasn’t about to fuck things up this close to the finish line.

1,000 court-ordered hours of community service. She was given two years to complete it. Add onto that the fines, the probation, and the 90-day sentence she’d served at the very beginning of it all and, well, she thought she had quite the impressive rap sheet for a winemaker’s daughter who’d only just turned 20. Theft, public mischief, destruction of property, vandalism, trespassing, more theft, and some extortion to tie it all together. History would call her a hellraiser. Her father called her a disappointment.

Every crime had been committed before she’d turned 18. Every sentence levelled against her had been according to the rules for sentencing a youth. Still, she had a long list of crimes to her name, and while her father’s influence had mostly kept her out of juvie, the judge had had qualms in stacking on plenty of hours of community service. She was a relatively non-violent offender, and the aim was to shape her into a functional and contributing member of society as she reached adulthood. As if cleaning trash off the highway and fixing broken fences were suddenly going to give her an outstanding moral compass.

Beau snorted at the thought of it as she turned the truck into the community centre’s parking lot. So far, her 900-odd hours had given her an excellent knowledge of paints, primers, and varnish, and a great disdain for people who liked to throw half-finished milkshakes out the windows of their moving cars.

While Lorena pulled the van up to the front door and let out the rest of the group, Beau pulled the truck to the side entrance where she could unload all the garbage bags into the large dumpster near the alley. Once the bags were tossed in the bin, she climbed back into the truck and gave her shirt a sniff. She fought not to gag as the smell of her own sweat mixed with garbage wafted up into her nostrils.

“Nice,” she grunted, before throwing the truck into reverse and turning back towards the main lot.

She parked in a vacant spot next to a handful of other vehicles that sported the ugly green-yellow-blue community logo. Once parked, she hopped out of the truck and headed towards the front doors.

The community centre was a squat, two-storey building that looked to be several decades old. The outside of it was a bit shabby and rundown but Beau knew well enough that the interior had been renovated in recent years. Now it sported new tile floors, bigger meeting rooms, and change rooms with more than one grimy shower apiece.

Striding into the building, Beau made her way through the main entrance and down a hallway towards a series of meeting rooms. She was about to enter the first one on her left, where she knew Caleb and the rest of the group would be milling around waiting to be let loose for the day, when she heard a voice coming from a room further down the hall. She frowned.

No one used the community centre for meetings while the degenerates were about. Beau had learned that early on. Despite all the grand talk about rehabilitating and rejoining society, there had been more than a few community members who had made their opinions about the custodial sentences very clear: convicts, regardless of their age, belonged behind bars, not painting the town’s old fences.

While the unhappy locals couldn’t shut down the program, they did avoid it like the plague. So, the community centre was usually empty on the days when Beau and her fellow felons came around. Hearing a voice down the hall was an irregularity that piqued her interest.

She began to creep forwards, making sure not to step too loudly with her beat-up old kicks. The voice was coming from a small room on the right, three doors down from the room she was supposed to be entering. The door stood slightly ajar. It had a narrow inset window which could possibly give Beau a view inside. She kept her distance and tried to get at an angle that would let her catch of glimpse of what was going on in the room without giving away her presence.

No dice. About as good as it got was a view of the edge of a table and a couple of filing cabinets along the back wall. The angle was just too sharp. With the window proving useless, she decided to lean back against the wall and focus on what she could hear instead: a man’s voice coming through stern and direct. He sounded vaguely familiar.

“...and I should warn you that we tolerate absolutely no violence or abuse on the premises, or while you are working under our supervision. Any behaviour of the sort will be reported to your probation officer and could result in additional sentencing. You understand?”

Beau felt her lips pull into a grin. A new recruit. Another unlucky sinner being reformed into a saint.

If the speech itself wasn’t enough to prove it, Beau quickly recognized the voice as belonging to Hector Harris, the local director of the Young Offender Rehabilitation Program, or ‘YORP’ as Caleb fondly called it.

“Now, your file indicates 240 hours of custodial service to be completed as a result of the assault charge four months ago – tough break on that one, hey? You were almost in the clear on your probation...”

There was an awkward pause. Hector coughed to break the silence before he continued,

“So, er, you have one year to complete it. I’m sure this has all been explained to you already. We don’t schedule you what would be considered ‘full time’ because the program mandates that offenders must be working or attending school during their rehabilitation in order to assist with their societal reintegration. As a result, 240 hours could very well take the full year, depending on your schedule. Are you currently employed or enrolled in any educational programs?”

There was a long beat of silence followed by a heavy sigh from Hector.

“You know, Miss Nydoorin, this would be a lot easier if you could simply answer me ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when I ask you something. This sitting and brooding won’t get you very far here and I can assure you that none of our supervisors are going to put up with it, nor am I.”

There was another pause. Then a woman’s voice, low and gruff.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

Beau couldn’t help the air that she sucked in through her teeth. This new one had spirit.

“Well,” Hector began levelly. “First steps would be warnings and write-ups, which I’m sure you don’t find very threatening at all.”

Beau could just imagine him standing up and leaning across the table, his meaty hands spread wide in a show of force.

“But next come meetings with your probation officer. Letters to both the juvenile and adult courts, depending. Petitions to increase your sentence. Calls that you’re violating your probation. Again.”

He let the threat linger. Beau felt anticipation dancing in her veins. When it became clear that the woman had nothing to say, Hector continued,

“I’ve read your file, Miss Nydoorin, so I know what you’re here for. I have no intention of holding your mistakes against you – that would defeat the entire purpose of my role here – but I want you to understand the gravity of what’s at stake for you. This is a chance to start over. To have a new beginning, a second chance at the life you haven’t been able to lead. Don’t you think that might be worth a little effort on your part?”

Beau thought she heard a noncommittal grunt come from the woman. Or maybe just the heavy exhalation of a long-held breath. Either way, Hector seemed to take it as the end of the conversation. Beau heard the sound of a chair scraping back, and then another, and she had to fight not to yelp as she realized she needed to move quickly in order to avoid getting caught eavesdropping.

Scampering down the hall, she made it to the doorway of the meeting room she was supposed to in when she heard the sound of footfalls entering the hallway behind her. She leaned against the wall and tried her best to look casual. She glanced to her left and watched as Hector and the woman drew near.

_Holy shit._

If Amazonian warriors had seen fit to send one of their own to the human world and turn her into a felon, it was this woman they’d picked. She was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a mane of black-and-white hair that spilled down her chest. She had sharp features including a jawline that could kill and eyes that held all the charged energy of a growing storm. She looked like a fucking viking.

And she looked like a fucking criminal.

She was wearing a bulky, black leather jacket with silver studs on the shoulders and black wash jeans to match. A baggy, grey v-neck was visible under her jacket and her heavy boots made resounding thuds as she strode down the hall behind Hector.

As they drew near, Hector spotted Beau and inclined his head politely. He was a middle-aged man with clean-cut sandy brown hair and a barrel chest that might become a beer gut someday.

“Afternoon, Beauregard. Back from the highway?”

Beau pulled her gaze from the woman and turned her attention to the program director.

“Yep. Hot one out there. Kind of a shit day for the garbage job.”

“If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime,” Hector replied, wagging his finger at her as though she were a preschooler in a timeout instead of a repeat offender with gang affiliations.

Beau didn’t answer, settling instead for raising an eyebrow at him in disdain. Hector either didn’t notice or didn’t care and just kept on down the hallway.

“Can’t be stopping to chat today, I’m showing Miss Nydoorin around. ‘Til next time, Miss Lionett.”

Beau ignored him and let her gaze slip back to the woman. She was already passing Beau by. She didn’t even seem to notice her standing there. Her gaze was fixed on the back of Hector’s head as she followed mutely behind him. Eventually, Beau lost sight of them as they went through a set of double doors and into the building’s main foyer.

“Nydoorin,” she murmured, testing the name across her teeth.

“Twenty bucks she was in a biker gang.”

“Agh – fuck!” Beau swore as she registered Caleb hovering next to her, his head poking out of the doorway. “How long have you been there?”

Caleb shot her a look that said ‘long enough, idiot’. “Long enough to see the newbie. She looked... formidable.”

“Yeah-” Beau turned her gaze down the hallway again. “’Formidable’ is one word for it.”

“Hm,” Caleb followed Beau’s gaze before he shrugged and turned back towards her. “Well, anyway, come inside so we can wrap up and get out of here. I could kill for a shower.”

Finally, Beau pulled her attention from the hallway and turned toward her friend.

“Don’t say that too loud,” she joked, giving Caleb a playful punch in the arm. “Or else they’ll think you mean it. With a record like yours, they’ll be- hey!”

She winced as Caleb hit her back, not overly hard given that he was a shrimp of a man, but hard enough to sting in the moment.

“Don’t be rude,” he scolded her before he retreated back into the meeting room.

“Me?” Beau followed him, rubbing her arm as she went. “Never!”

Miss Nydoorin was already a distant memory.

* * *

Unlike earlier that day along the highway, Beau actually welcomed the sweat that was trickling down her spine in the small gymnasium that evening. It wasn’t the sweat of a tedious job done in the sweltering heat. This was the sweat of work that had real meaning to her, real rewards, and wasn’t designed simply as a means to an end.

_This_ was her rehabilitation.

From behind her fists, she shot a grin at her opponent. It probably looked like she was baring her teeth, and the bulky mouthguard she wore likely didn’t help. Her opponent, a 21-year-old spitfuck named Logan, was sweating profusely as he fought to catch his breath between the onslaught of her fists.

Over his shoulder, Beau could see her mentor, Dairon, giving her an approving look. They were standing a few feet away from the edge of the practice mat, watching Beau dance circles around the gradually tiring man. It was uncharacteristic of Beau to feel so warmly towards a figure of authority but Dairon was a special case. Dairon was the reason she felt, for the first time since handcuffs had been wrapped around her wrists nearly three years ago, that she might actually be good for something.

And to think, it had all come from the YORP mandate that program attendees were required to either be employed or getting an education during their rehabilitation. Having by some miracle graduated high school, and being the daughter of a well-to-do winemaker, Beau had opted for the educational route.

The job market wasn’t exactly forgiving toward those with a criminal past, and since her sentence wasn’t yet completed, her youth record wasn’t yet sealed. Employment opportunities were thin, to say the least. And sure, the YORP program managers would assist with job searches and interviews and the like, but given that her father was willing to pay for the schooling, it simply made the most sense to choose the scholarly route.

Still, to say that Beau had ‘opted’ for it was a generous term. Her father had insisted she get a ‘proper education’ in the hopes that it might “obscure the distasteful parts of her past”, as he’d put it. He had chosen the institution she would attend and the discipline she would study, despite her protestations that it wouldn’t do shit to turn her into an upright young woman. But since it was, after all, a requirement of the program, and she did, in fact, want to complete her sentence, there wasn’t much she could do other than to comply, however defiantly.

To her surprise, her father did not send her to either military or business school. The former she had assumed was on the table after she had stolen from the family business and begun her life of crime. The latter, well, it had always been her father’s goal for someone to run the business when he was gone – he had thought it could be Beau, for a time, but clearly those sentiments had changed. Not that Beau cared anymore anyway. He would never do things her way, and now he could pass the torch onto her baby brother when he was of age.

No, rather than ship her off to some distant town or subject her to the harrowing trials of economic theory, Beau’s father had instead decided that she should study psychology. The goal was that she would, as he put it, “learn the inner workings of the human mind, and tell me why my only daughter turned out to be such a disappointment.”

The memory was a sour one, and sinking into it left her reflexes a touch too slow on defence. Her opponent swung high, caught her guard, and dropped his other fist to her ribs. She tensed against the blow as it collided with her muscles. She let out a huff. Sure, they were wearing gloves, but a punch was still a punch.

“Discipline!” Dairon called out, their voice clipped and precise.

“You hear that, Jailbird?” Logan taunted. “Discipline – or else they’ll lock you back up.”

The taunt lost some of its edge around his laboured breathing but it still had Beau gritting her teeth. She had only been in jail for 90 days, a minimum sentence granted by virtue of her father’s connections, but once the cat had gotten out of the bag about her past, the nickname had stuck amongst the members of the college’s martial arts club.

The martial arts club. What a godsend. She could still remember her first time setting foot on the campus. She had never thought she’d find her calling in a sweaty, basement gymnasium at community college.

When she’d begun the psychology program nearly two years ago, she’d enrolled in evening classes. The college was in the city and the city was a half an hour drive from town. Evening made the most sense given the ungodly number of custodial hours she had to work off back home. That first evening, she had walked into a classroom with seven other people in it. It was meant to seat 50.

A wispy man with long blonde hair had stood at the front of the classroom, an air of pompousness about him. He had introduced himself as Professor Zeenoth and had proceeded to give a monotonous and downright boring lecture on psychology for the next 95 minutes.

When the end of the class had finally rolled around, Beau hadn’t been surprised to find that she wasn’t the only person sitting in front of an empty desk and sporting a vacant expression. She shouldered her bag, despite having used none of the materials inside of it, and had sauntered back to her car. Her expectations for the classes had been low and so far she’d been proven right. She had spent the drive home pondering the psychology of low expectations, just for fun.

It wasn’t until the third week of classes that things had abruptly changed. She had arrived for her class with Zeenoth only to find the usual instructor wasn’t there. Instead, a ‘Professor Dairon’ was going to be giving the lecture that evening. It was Dairon’s bald head and sharp features that Beau had noticed first, until they had leaned over the table at the front of the room and showed off impeccably sculpted forearms below the cuffs of their rolled-up sleeves. Tack onto that an absolutely enthralling lecture about behavioural psychology and, well, Beau was surprised to find herself supremely intrigued by both the discipline and the teacher.

She winced as Logan’s sudden kick caught her on the side of her leg. She’d been caught daydreaming again. She grunted in frustration and strafed back out of his reach.

She was unfocused. She was letting Logan claw back into their match when she should’ve had him down for the count within the first few seconds of sparring. She watched as he threw a couple of punches in her direction without expecting any to land, simply keeping her at a distance.

Frustrated at her wandering mind and suddenly wanting the match over with, Beau lunged forward and feigned low with her right. Logan flinched in anticipation and dropped the guard around his head. Beau shifted her weight and threw all her effort into a brutal left hook to his chin. It caught him clean in the side of the jaw, and the air fled from his lungs like a popped balloon.

Staggering, Logan’s form opened up even more, and Beau let loose a flurry of blows that had the man backing up until he threatened to fall out of their makeshift ring. Beau kept wailing on him, his defence completely shattered until she heard him call,

“Tap – fuck, I said ‘tap’!”

With that, she let up. She hopped back, bouncing on the balls of her feet and feeling immensely pleased with herself. Grumbling, Logan picked himself up off the floor and spat his mouthguard into his hand. He rolled his head and shook his shoulders before giving her a sportsmanlike tap with his glove.

“Never can understand how you move so damn fast,” he grunted as he pushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead.

“Learned it in prison,” Beau replied with a grin, still bouncing on her feet.

Logan arched an eyebrow at her, clearly uncertain whether she was joking or not, before he ducked off the mat and made for the locker room. He was no doubt going to nurse his injured pride in peace. From behind him, Dairon stepped into the sparring space on the mat. They stood opposite Beau, arms clasped behind their back. They were wearing a form-fitting black hoodie and black track pants to match.

“That could have been better.”

“Could’ve been worse,” Beau countered lightly as she spat her mouthguard into one of her gloves.

Dairon’s expression never changed but Beau could’ve sworn she saw amusement flash in their eyes.

“Why so unfocused today, Beauregard?”

Beau shrugged and stopped bouncing. “Thinking about the past, I guess.”

“Hm.” Neither a noise of approval or disapproval, it was an acknowledgement of Beau’s comment and a gentle request for more information. Dairon wouldn’t interrogate her unless they had to.

“Thinking about how we met, actually. How I got started here.”

“Ah.” Dairon inclined their head as if remembering it too. “You had just started your program. I remember quite clearly that you did _not_ want to be here. Then you discovered that I helped manage the martial arts club. That certainly made you change your tune, I think?

Beau rolled her eyes. It was true that she’d only really taken to the whole ‘college’ thing once she’d followed Dairon’s suggestion and signed up for the club.

“Yeah, well, who can blame me, this shit rules.” She gestured at the gym around them. “Just had to get past Zeenoth first.”

Dairon shook her head at the mention of the former academic.

“To think he had the audacity to call himself ‘Professor’. He was an instructor at best.”

“Yeah. Little bitch,” Beau added for good measure, mostly for her own amusement.

She had learned several classes after meeting Dairon that Zeenoth had been a Ph.D. candidate from a university in a different city. He had come to their college to gain hands-on experience teaching before he completed his dissertation. Dairon had been furious to learn he’d been parading as a professor. When they’d found out, he had immediately been sent back to his home institution.

Dairon quirked an eyebrow at Beau’s comment. “And how are your studies going? They are equally as important as the physical education you are receiving, you know.”

“Oh, uh,” Beau ran a gloved hand along the back of her neck. “The studies are coming along fantastic, yeah. Really good.”

There was a pause before Dairon said, “The paper is due this coming Monday, Beauregard.”

Beau sent her gaze skyward as she fought not to let out a heavy sigh. “I know, I know. I’ll get it done.”

Dairon’s expression nearly always remained neutral – it was something Beau appreciated. Her mentor may never look at her proudly, but they never looked at her in disappointment either. Still, Beau couldn’t help the feeling that she was letting Dairon down with her lacklustre grades in the class. It was her second year, the final year of her program, and the grades she received in these classes could shape her plans moving forward.

Dairon regarded her for a few moments before asking, “What about the paper is giving you trouble?”

Beau thought it over for a second before replying, “I’m just... not interested in ethnographic research carried out by some dude in the Amazon. Isn't that more anthropology than psychology? Plus some of those studies are all kinds of fucked up.”

She winced slightly at the bluntness of the statement but Dairon didn’t seem to mind.

“Okay,” Dairon nodded. “The topic is immersive ethnography and its efficacy as a research method, especially as it pertains to bias, which is certainly a topic of psychological interest. Why not discuss something other than the ethnographic research of geographically secluded cultures?”

“Huh?”

Dairon almost cracked a smile. “Don’t talk about some ‘dude’ and his research in the Amazon. Talk about ethnographic research of a different kind.”

Beau frowned. “What different kind is there? Everybody knows everybody – you know what I mean, culture-wise. Unless they’re one of these secluded or ‘uncontacted’ cultures, everybody is pretty par for the course, aren't they?”

Dairon shrugged. “We often think of ethnography as the study of cultures that lay outside the norm, but really it is just the study of an individual culture. A culture can be boiled down to the customs, ideas, and social behaviours of a group. Nowhere do we say that group must be isolated _physically_ from the world.”

“Okay?”

“So, Beauregard, you have personal experience with such a group. Gangs form a culture of their own and are by their very nature subversive to some of society’s most upheld values.”

Beau opened her mouth but Dairon raised a hand to cut her off.

“I would never ask you to write on a topic you are not comfortable with. I would not ask you to write your personal experiences at all, and if the subject were still to cause you discomfort, I wouldn’t ask you to write it even from an objective perspective. But I wanted to make it clear that there are other ways to write this paper, Beauregard. Ways that you may find easier and more engaging than simply discussing the antics of some man in the Amazon. Subcultures can fall under the scope of ethnographic research and if that would make this topic more palatable to you, I would encourage you to take that approach.”

Beau let the information sink in before she cracked a wide smile. “That actually helps a lot, yeah. Yeah... shit.”

Dairon’s lips quirked just shy of pulling into a smile. They nodded once. “I’m glad you are feeling better about the assignment.”

Silence followed for a few moments before Beau spoke up again. “You’re a good teacher.”

Sincerity rang heavily in her voice. Gratefulness too.

Dairon tilted their head sideways. “Despite what I expect you’ve been hearing for a lot of your life, you are a good student, Beauregard. You have a wealth of potential and I would not see it wasted.”

The praise washed over Beau like warm water on a cold day, reaching into every pore and imbuing her with pride. A little overwhelmed and keen not to show how much it had affected her, she rolled her shoulders, popped her mouthguard back in, and brought up her gloves.

“You up for a round?”

Dairon gave her a level stare. “I’m not wearing gloves.”

“That’s fine.”

“I won’t pull my punches.”

“Even better.”

Dairon did, finally, crack a smile at that.

It was only a few short minutes before Beau’s mentor had her pinned against the mat. Beau huffed as she fought to break the iron grip that held her.

“Yield.” Dairon’s voice was calm in her ear.

The weight of their body, slight as they were, could’ve kept Beau pinned as though they were an ox. Beau continued her struggle, futile as it was. She tried rolling to the side, throwing her head back, and even flailing around with her legs, but all to no avail.

“I have you pinned. Yield.”

Grunting in frustration, Beau wiggled for a few more moments before she finally went limp. Dairon released her. Once Beau rolled over onto her back, Dairon offered her a hand.

“You are sluggish today.”

“I had a long day,” Beau replied around heaving breaths. She threw her gloves to the floor and spat her mouthguard back out. “It was hot out.”

“Garbage?” Dairon asked.

“How did you know?”

The side of Dairon’s mouth twitched upwards. “I have an excellent sense of smell. How is the program going?”

Beau almost gave her typical response – ‘it’s going’ – until she remembered the events of the very end of the day. “They’ve got someone new.”

“Ah, well. Injustice exists and corruption persists. What are they in for?”

“’She’ – and I don’t know.” Beau gave Dairon her best attempt at a semi-serious, reproachful look. “You know, at YORP it’s considered impolite to ask about someone’s conviction,” she told them.

“Yes,” Dairon inclined their head. “But I doubt that’s ever stopped you before.”

“Not really, no.”

“So are you going to ask her what she did?”

“Yeah,” Beau replied as the image of the woman Hector had called ‘Miss Nydoorin’ formed in her mind; black-and-white hair and an aesthetic to die for. “Yeah, I think just might.”

* * *

It was another several days before Beau crossed paths with Miss Nydoorin again.

It was early afternoon. She and Caleb were about to begin a round of community service. They were accompanied by two other ‘YORPies’, as Caleb called them. He really had the most inventive names for things.

Despite spending so much time together, Beau wouldn’t go so far as to call herself friends with any of the others. Caleb was the exception, and that was only because he had been such a glaring asshole when they’d first met that their friendship had in some ways been inevitable.

On that particular afternoon, Beau, Caleb, and the two other young lawbreakers were milling about in the community centre parking lot. They were waiting for their supervisor, Milton, to tell them to load up into the van so they could drive out to the worksite for the day. They were supposed to be painting somebody’s fence. The roller brushes, paint cans, and other miscellaneous supplies were already packed into the back of the van. All that was left was to wait for Milton’s cue.

Milton was a reedy man in his late thirties with an unfortunate case of male pattern baldness. Of the three supervisors they dealt with on a regular basis, he was the middle of the ladder for Beau. She neither liked him nor hated him. He was polite, distant, and just there for the hours, same as them.

He stood in the middle of the parking lot. The sun shone down around him where it could amongst a spotted sky of clouds. He was tapping his foot as he waited, clipboard in hand. For what, Beau wasn’t sure. She decided to go up and ask.

“Hey, Milt,” she called, using the nickname only to pester him. “What are we waiting for? ‘Times a wasting’, as they say.”

He gave her a disdainful look but otherwise didn’t comment on the nickname. “We’re waiting for one more.”

“Oh, someone’s late?” What’s that gonna be, demerits? A write-up?” Beau joked sarcastically.

Milton sighed heavily. “Just go wait by the van, Beauregard.”

Shrugging indifferently, she obeyed, if only because Milton wasn’t exactly a prime candidate for thrilling conversation. She sidled up next to Caleb, who was leaning against the side of the van and playing with a set of matches.

“Didn’t think you were allowed to have those.”

“What am I going to do, set the building on fire?” Caleb dead-panned. “They are matches, Beauregard-” he held up the small pack for her to see, “-but they could go a long way with some gasoline.”

Beau snorted. “You know, saying shit like that is exactly why they keep sending you back here.”

Rather than offer a reply, Caleb simply shrugged noncommittally and struck another match.

Before the conversation could continue any further, a clunky old station wagon came chugging up the road. Its muffler was making sounds like two tin cans going at it on a pantry shelf and every head in the parking lot turned to watch its approach. It drove slowly into the lot, its aging green paint fading to rust around the wheels, before coming to a stop just short of Milton. The passenger side door opened and a tall, brawny figure clambered out.

_The viking._

Miss Nydoorin stood as if she hadn’t just stepped out of the most beat-up car of the decade. She was a force to be reckoned with, sporting a different black leather jacket than the other day and a pair of ripped light-wash jeans. The white shirt she wore was torn in several places along the hem, the tatters of it dangling from beneath her jacket like 1970s fringe. Her hair was down and wild, waves and braids intermingling to form a mane that would make even Medusa jealous.

Beau watched as she shut the car door and began walking towards Milton, only to stop short when the car let out a quick, insistent honk. Beau turned her attention to the windshield and tried to see in to the driver. She couldn’t make out much beyond a man with... pink hair?

Miss Nydoorin froze. A moment passed where she looked to be carefully schooling her expression before she turned back toward the car. The driver rolled down his window. Beau watched in fascination as the woman trudged to the car, leaned down to the window, and traded quiet words with the man before she stood up and turned back towards Milton. The entire exchange seemed overwhelmingly familial, like something a teasing father might do to embarrass his children on the first day of school.

A “you didn’t say ‘I love you’” type of schtick.

With the bizarre exchange over, the driver rolled up their window and reversed the station wagon out of the parking lot. The sound of its retreating, clanking muffler eventually faded into the distance. Miss Nydoorin approached Milton, who appeared taken aback by the entire thing, although whether it was the noisy car, the imposing woman, or the strange interaction they’d all witnessed, Beau couldn’t be sure. She tried to edge closer to the two of them without drawing their attention.

“Um,” Milton stammered as he took in the woman’s appearance from head to toe. She was only taller than him by a matter of inches, but she was nearly twice as broad in the shoulders. “Yasha... Nydoorin?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, well, er-” Milton scribbled something on his clipboard, “-please try to arrive on time for all your future shifts.”

Yasha gave him a blank stare that lingered on just long enough to be considered uncomfortable before she offered a clipped, “Noted.”

“Right, well, uh-” Milton turned and gestured towards the van, “-let’s head out then.”

Yasha shifted her gaze to the group waiting by the car. Beau watched as she took in the four of them standing there, her eyes running over them for the first time. Even as her gaze washed over Beau, it did so without an ounce of recognition. Or interest. She regarded them all with such an overwhelming sense of apathy that Beau’s first instinct was to demand her attention somehow.

So, as Yasha walked over to them, her black boots crunching the gravel on the pavement, Beau called out an experimental, “’Sup newbie?”

From somewhere behind her she thought she heard Caleb’s hand smack against his head.

It worked, however, as Yasha’s attention fell onto Beau as she approached. Without breaking her stride, she gave Beau a once-over and replied with an emotionless, “Sup.”

Not a question, and certainly not an invitation for further conversation. Yasha shouldered past her and made her way to the side door of the van. Beau turned and watched as she pulled the handle, slid the door open, and climbed in without another word. Caleb, who had moved out of Yasha’s way and now stood near the front door, turned his gaze from Yasha’s retreating form over to Beau.

“She is a beast of a woman,” he said, his voice tinged with something like awe.

Beau cocked an eyebrow. “I think she can still hear you.”

“Sure can-” came Yasha’s voice from the inside of the van. Beau and Caleb looked at each other, and Beau felt her lips pulling into a grin.

‘This is gonna be fun,’ she mouthed to Caleb before she followed Yasha’s lead and clambered into the van.

* * *

The faded white picket fence they were going to be painting belonged to Mrs. Davies, a brusque old widow who lived on the edge of town. She lived alone in a small home that she’d once shared with her partner, the other Mrs. Davies, who had passed away some years ago.

Mrs. Davies’ house was a tiny one: a little bungalow that looked to be half as old as she was. It was secluded from its neighbours and was the last house between the town and the endlessly-stretching plains. It sat nestled in a modest plot of land, with a stand of oak and maple trees bordering it at the back. The front of the lot was, unfortunately, unprotected from the heat of the sun, but there was consolation in knowing that when they did reach the back, they would find shade under the tall trees there.

Once the van had pulled up and parked, the young offenders began unloading the supplies from the back. More accurately, Beau began unloading the van with the help of one of the others; a 17-year-old girl named Anna that Beau seemed to remember had been arrested on several counts of vandalism and destruction of property. Caleb stood behind them and helped by taking items from their hands and laying them in an organized pile on the sidewalk. Dale, a 19-year-old pickpocket and corner store thief, began surveying Mrs. Davies’ fence.

Yasha, for her part, stood silently a short distance away, arms folded across her chest as she let her attention drift between the van and the surrounding area. She looked as apathetic as before, but a touch more relaxed. Resigned, maybe, to spending her day doing manual labour.

While they prepared to get to work, Milton wandered to the front gate. It wasn’t long before Mrs. Davies was teetering down the front path towards him.

“Good morning, Mrs. Davies,” he called pleasantly.

“Good morning, Milton dear.”

Mrs. Davies was a short and stooped elderly woman, her shoulders permanently rolled forwards after years of holding herself upright. Her hair, which had once been black and dreadlocked, was cut short and had long since turned a greyish white. She wore dark, loose-fitting trousers and a forest-green cardigan. She walked on wobbly legs, aided by a small wooden cane.

In spite of her frail-looking form, her wits were as sharp as ever. They could still crack at an unsuspecting stranger with all the snap of a lion tamer's whip. She was never rude, but she was to the point and downright blunt at times. At least, she was towards the men of the town. With women, she seemed to be softer.

As she reached the small gate, Milton opened it for her and she teetered out into the street.

“You lot may as well put all those rollers back," she said, gesturing at the pile of equipment with her cane. "There’ll be lots of work to get done on this old fence before you can even think about slapping a coat of paint on it.”

Dale, who had crouched down to inspect the fence, stood up, brushed off his knees, and walked back over to join them.

“She’s right,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Shit, Milton, you didn’t think to check this shit out before dragging us out here, or what?”

Milton gave Dale a sharp glance. “Watch it. Now-,” He turned to Mrs. Davies. “What’s this about more work?”

It was Yasha who spoke first, before either Mrs. Davies or Dale could reply. Her arms still crossed in front of her chest, her expression still overwhelmingly indifferent.

“The fence is too old and chipped. It’ll need to be scraped, washed, and sanded. Then primed. Then painted.”

All eyes turned to her briefly. It was the most she’d said all day. Milton quickly turned back to Mrs. Davies, seeking confirmation, while Dale shrugged and turned back towards the fence. Beau, for her part, kept her attention on Yasha.

“Done this type of thing before then, have you?”

Yasha’s eyes stayed fixed on the fence in front of them. “Yes.”

“It’s pretty boring stuff. What crime landed you this punishment the first time around?”

It was bold of her to ask about Yasha’s criminal history and she knew it. They’d hardly exchanged pleasantries and Yasha certainly hadn’t been chatty in the car ride over. Still, Beau found the words tumbling out of her mouth. If she was a sawed-off shotgun, it seemed as though Yasha was a long-range rifle, silenced and unloaded.

A moment passed before Yasha replied, “There wasn’t one.”

With that, she took two strides forwards and crouched down next to the tools they’d unloaded. She sifted through them briefly.

“There’s four scrapers in here. No sandpaper.” She said it to whomever might be listening before she grabbed one of the scrapers and pushed up from her crouch. She flipped it end over end in her hand, catching it by its narrow handle, and began walking toward the fence line. “Daylight’s wasting.”

Beau looked over to Caleb, who shrugged. Meanwhile, Milton seemed to be coming to some sort of arrangement with Mrs. Davies.

“...alright, alright, well, we’ll get started on peeling the paint today and I’ll just let Mr. Harris know that this project is going to require more hours than we originally allotted it...“

“Come on-,” Beau said to Caleb as she strode forward and reached for two of the scrapers. “Let’s go.”

She turned and threw one to him. After a bit of panicked handwaving, he managed to catch the thing without it falling to the pavement.

“Please don’t throw things at me. You know I am not athletically inclined.”

Instead of replying, Beau was already set on walking away and heading towards the spot where Yasha had decided to begin her work. Assuming Caleb would follow – which he did – Beau crouched down in the grass several pickets away from the other woman. Up close, she could easily see what Yasha had meant about the peeling paint needing to be removed. Any new coat they tried to put on would turn out bumpy and ridged from the worn-out coat beneath.

Caleb joined Beau a couple of seconds later and eventually, Dale wandered over as well, although he sat himself down in an area apart from the three of them. Beau didn’t take it personally. A reintegration program like theirs could result in lasting friendships, sure, but for some it was simply another form of punishment.

With no tool left for Anna, Milton was in the awkward position of trying to decide if he could leave them alone for a short while and go pick up more tools from the hardware store. It was Mrs. Davies who made the decision for him soon enough.

“Well, you can’t have that poor girl standing around and doing nothing. Take her with you to get more tools and I’ll watch over these four here.”

“Mrs. Davies,” Milton began uncertainly, “I really shouldn’t leave you alone with these... people. Some of the things they’ve been convicted of, it’s-”

Mrs. Davies, who clearly wanted to prioritize the refurbishment of her fence over all other matters, waved him off. “No need to shock me with the details, Milton. Just be a dear and go to the store, will you?”

It was, Beau thought, a talent of elderly women to be able to camouflage a demand behind the disguise of a request. Just like that, Milton was asking Anna to climb back into the van and the two of them were off to the town’s main hardware store in search of scrapers, sandpaper, primer, and a couple of hammers for good measure.

As the van pulled away down the road, Mrs. Davies hobbled over to where the three of them were working. She spared Dale a passing glance but seemed to find them more worthy of her immediate attention.

“Good, you’re already started,” she said as she came to a stop nearby. “I’ll have you know that I keep a loaded Winchester rifle in the house, a vestige of my former hunting days, and if one of you so much as _looks_ at that countryside funny, I’ll be pointing it out my living room window, my failing eyesight be damned.”

Caleb, taken completely aback by the woman’s frankness, let out a loud gulp and nodded quickly several times, mumbling a polite “of course” before turning his head back to his work. Beau simply gave Mrs. Davies one of her winning smiles and inclined her head in understanding.

“I believe you’re a sharpshooter, Mrs. Davies. No need to prove it to us.” she replied good-naturedly.

Next to her, Yasha lowered her scraper and looked up at the old woman. The corner of her mouth threatened to pull into a soft smile.“Yes ma’am. We wouldn’t dream of it.”

Mrs. Davies let out a grunt of approval before she waddled off in Dale’s direction, no doubt planning to give him the same warning.

When she was a good distance away, Beau turned towards Yasha. “’Ma’am’? Wouldn’t have figured you as the ‘respecting authority’ type there, Yasha.”

Yasha had already returned her attention to the fence. She did, however, lift one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “She has my respect freely. Authority has nothing to do with it.”

“You’re a ‘respecting the elders’ type, then?” Beau continued light-heartedly.

That time, she got no reply at all.

They worked in silence then, the scraping of their tools against the wood the only constant of the day. Every so often a car or two would pass by on their way in and out of town, or a couple of birds would strike up a conversation in the surrounding trees. It took nearly an hour for Milton to return with Anna and the tools. When they were back, their supervisor locked the van and made for Mrs. Davies’ front door, clearly having no intention of waiting outside while they worked. Anna took her scraper and knelt down over by Dale.

“You think she likes him?” Beau asked absently, more to kill the silence than anything.

Caleb looked up and towards the two other young workers. They were crouched close enough to be considered working ‘together’ but far enough apart that it didn’t seem overly familiar.

“What, that?” He pointed his scraper in their direction.

“Yeah.”

“Psh.”

Beau couldn’t help a small chuckle. “’Psh’ what?”

Caleb shrugged. “She can do better.”

That had Beau laughing for real. “A vandal can do better than a thief?”

Caleb shot her a withering look. “I mean that she is still a kid. She is only 17, yes? And if she keeps her record clean and completes the program, all of those past mistakes will be forgiven.”

“The same goes for Dale, though,” Beau countered easily.

In truth, she wasn’t remotely interested in whether Anna liked Dale or if the two kids would become reformed adults. It was simply one of the greatest joys in her small town life to rile Caleb up from time to time. The debates came so easily between them, sometimes she did think it was a miracle they’d grown to care for each other so much.

“No,” Caleb insisted, shaking his head now. “No, Dale is a lifer, I can tell. Maybe he is trying to change, but I can tell he has an itch.”

“An itch?”

“To steal,” Caleb continued. “It is like... it is a rush of adrenaline for him. He misses it.”

Beau shifted her gaze from the two kids back to Caleb. “Are we... still talking about Dale?”

Caleb shrugged again. Suddenly, he no longer seemed interested in discussing the likelihood of the blossoming romance. Beau, intent on not letting the day lapse into silence again, decided to ask him about something else. Something that could be considered tangentially related.

“Have you spoken to Astrid lately?”

Caleb, who had gone back to scraping a section of the fence, slowed his hand to a stop. “Why would you ask me that?”

“I’m just making conversation!”

Caleb sighed and began scraping again. “No, I have not talked to her recently. Why, have you been in touch with Tori?”

He said it without a hint of malice, and yet Beau knew him well enough to know that he’d meant it to be barbed. It certainly felt like it; the way Tori’s name punctured her lungs and sunk in its hooks. There was no easy way to remove it once it had latched itself on.

“Low blow,” she told him, her voice teetering on the edge of anger.

“As was your comment about Astrid,” he retorted.

“I was genuinely curious-,” Beau began, fighting to keep her temper in check. “-You just did that to be a dick.”

“Oh, as if you didn’t know what you were doing when you asked about-”

“You two bicker like a married couple.”

The sudden interjection of Yasha’s voice startled both Caleb and Beau into a momentary silence. Beau turned to face her. She had continued moving down the fence while they’d been arguing, and now there were about eleven or twelve pickets between them.

“Ew, no thank you,” Beau said after a moment.

“Absolutely not,” Caleb added.

Yasha’s lips pulled into a smirk even as her eyes remained focused on the fence.

“He’s not my type,” Beau added quickly. It seemed a crucial point to make, for some reason.

At Beau's comment, Yasha’s smirk grew a little wider. “I gathered.”

“Oh yeah?” Beau fought not to creep closer to her. This was the most that Yasha had engaged with them all day. It was intoxicating, in a way, to get such an imposing woman to come out of her shell. “What makes you say that?”

Yasha continued peeling paint as she said, “Well, for starters, ‘Tori’ is most commonly a woman’s name.”

Beau frowned. From behind her she heard Caleb muffle a laugh.

“Maybe, but I didn’t say that I-” She cut herself off. As much as she wanted her conversation with Yasha to continue further, some things just didn’t need to be said on the very first day.

The abrupt way she’d stopped speaking clearly did her no favours, though. Yasha tilted her head sideways as if to say ‘there it is’ before she added, “You didn’t need to."

Beau’s frown deepened. She couldn't keep the irritation out of her voice when she retorted, “Well, what about you? Since this is turning into such a sharing circle, you wanna come over here and tell us about your sorry past?”

The smirk slipped from Yasha’s lips and her eyebrows knit together. “No...,” she replied slowly. “I don’t think so.”

Beau had no immediate response to that. Her anger and annoyance, which she realized was primarily directed at Caleb, quickly faded. She felt guilty, soon after, for snapping at the other woman so rudely. She sighed.

Just as she was about to open her mouth to apologize, Yasha pushed up from her crouch. She rolled her neck and shoulders, turned her face toward the sun, and absentmindedly shrugged out of her leather jacket.

As it fell to the ground, Beau took in the new details of Yasha’s figure with a near-ravenous interest, their altercation forgotten. The tattered white shirt she wore was sleeveless and nearly see-through, her bare, broad shoulders rounding into muscular arms. Her deltoids, biceps, triceps, and whatever else made up muscular arm anatomy, looked like they had been carved from stone. Yet, on the whole, she seemed almost gentler in the sunlight. The paleness of her skin made it easy to spot the large green tattoo that began somewhere above her neck and ran down the length of her left arm to her wrist. It looked vaguely floral from where Beau was sitting.

It was all a bit striking, to say the least. The words Beau had prepared all but shrivelled up and died in her throat. Yasha, without the leather jacket to darken her look and with sunlight smeared across her skin, was all glowing radiance and soft edges.

The moment passed when she turned her gaze back towards Beau. The hard set of her jaw returned, and the look in her eyes held all the edge of tempered steel.

“I’m gonna work over there for a bit,” she announced, shrugging vaguely in a direction that was decidedly _away_ from the two of them.

She turned and began to walk away. Beau found her tongue at the very last second. “Wait!”

Yasha looked back over her shoulder, eyebrow cocked in a silent question. Beau couldn’t remember what she’d been going to say. But it felt like she should say _something_ – anything–

“You got a license for those guns?”

She was grateful that, this time, she heard no distant snickering from Caleb. Instead, a bloated silence hung across the yard, waiting for the pinprick that would shatter the moment. Yasha looked taken aback at first, her eyebrows raised slightly at the brazenness of Beau’s comment. Then, her expression shifted into something on the very edges of amusement.

“If I did-,” she began, her voice low, nearly playful, “-do you think I would’ve wound up here?”

She let her gaze linger on Beau for a few heartbeats longer, almost daring her to fire some half-cracked joke in return. Beau had nothing to give, however. She was too caught off guard by the way Yasha had thrown her own teasing back at her.

With nothing more to say, Yasha turned and resumed walking toward another section of the fence. Beau watched her leave, her eyes drinking in the shape of her back, the way she could very clearly follow the ridges of her muscles before dragging her eyes lower to the narrowing lines of her waist–

“Why would I talk about Anna and Dale when watching you drool over this woman has become vastly more entertaining?”

Beau blinked a few times and shook her head before turning to Caleb. “You-,” she pointed a finger at him, “-shut up.”

Caleb looked over to where Yasha was now sitting, crouched by herself along a distant section of the fence.

“I hope we are scheduled with her quite often. If we are, your last 100 hours will become much, much more interesting.”

Beau followed Caleb’s gaze, ignoring his teasing all the while. His comment chafed at her after his earlier mention of Tori, but she had to admit that she did agree with him on one thing: she found herself hoping that Yasha would be paired with them for the foreseeable future. There was just something about her, like a gravitational force, and Beau found herself being pulled all too willingly into orbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter has more of the Nein, including Caduceus and his absolute beater of a car.
> 
> im on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/rageyasha) if you'd like to say hi and scream about the imminence of the beauyasha date <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> removed/updated some tags and will keep updating them on a chapter-by-chapter basis so keep an eye out!

Both the blessing and the curse of having only a handful of bars in town was that on any given night, Beau’s bar of choice could be a lifeless wasteland or it could be full to the brim with other patrons. On that night, in particular, it was the latter. She and her friends had only found a booth in the back by the dual virtues of luck and having an in with the owner.

There was no special occasion that would make the bar so busy. It was more likely that the people of the town had come to realize what Beau had always known: _Dagen’s_ was the best bar in town.

Of course, it was a Friday night and that helped too. A Friday night in springtime when the days were growing longer, stretching their greedy fingers into dusk. Everyone knew that Fridays were special; they signaled the end of the workweek and ushered in the reprieve of the weekend, but for Beau, they were coveted. Friday nights were for her friends, the lot of them gathering in a small booth in a bar that was one rung above a dive.

_Dagen’s_ was an old, wooden building with an interior to match. Wooden tables, a wooden bar, and thick, wooden beams that supported its aging roof. Beau had once joked that it was an arsonist’s honeypot, and Caleb had given her a look that had said ‘you have no idea’. The bar was sacred to them, though, and Caleb was, if not a reformed man, a man who at the very least was letting the winds of change ruffle his hair.

He sat next to her in the booth, his spindly frame hardly taking up any space at all. It gave Beau all the leeway she needed to spread her elbows wide across the table. She had one hand curled around a tall pint glass. The other picked absentmindedly at a coaster as she listened to the conversation unfold before her.

Jester, Fjord, and Veth, the three other members of their group, were seated across from Beau and Caleb, each nursing their own drinks as Jester showed off her latest tattoo.

“It wasn’t painful at all. Really, it felt kind of nice – don’t make that face, Fjord, _it did!_ ”

The tattoo was emblazoned along the back of her left shoulder, and she had to lean awkwardly across the table in order to give the rest of the group a proper view of it. It was the image of a worn treasure chest, its healing, puckered lines raised slightly against the smooth backdrop of her skin. The chest sat open. It overflowed with jewels, all rubies and sapphires. Nestled in the middle of the hoard was a circular crystal, a jagged cut across the centre of it. It resembled an eye.

“I was inspired by all those pirate movies Fjord likes. You know, with the sword battles and the cannons and the tentacle monsters.”

Fjord twisted his mouth at the comment. “Do you have to call them tentacle monsters? I feel like it just sounds... profane.”

Jester simply stuck her tongue out at him in response.

Beau watched the interaction with quiet amusement. It shocked her at times to remember they’d all known each other less than two years. They already had the bearing of a blood-bound family.

It had been Fjord that Beau had met first, nearly two years ago. After one of her lighter training sessions with the martial arts club, she’d decided to add a short workout at the college’s fitness centre. The gym hadn’t been overly busy considering it had been nearly 9 pm, and Beau had wandered into an open area with mats on the floor where she’d planned to do her core workout.

As she’d gotten there, her eyes had been almost painfully drawn to the only other person in the room: a young man trying to do sit-ups on a mat nearby. ‘Trying’ was the operative word. Watching him had been like passing a car crash on the highway; a disaster she simply couldn’t turn away from.

He had been lean and broad-shouldered. Judging by his physique, he should have been perfectly able to do a sit-up, but his body simply would not go. Beau had watched him try a couple more flimsy attempts before she had taken mercy on the poor man and crouched down on the mat next to him.

“It would be easier if you had some weight on your feet,” she’d told him as he’d flopped backward on the mat, defeated.

“By all means,” he’d replied, gesturing at his feet, his eyes looking up at the ceiling with a half-glazed expression.

Beau had gently stood on the man’s toes. “Alright, come on. Up you go.”

He had done three sit-ups before collapsing backward again, but three was progress, and just like that, Beau had found herself a workout buddy.

Their workout partnership had quickly turned into a full-blown friendship, and it wasn’t long before Beau was meeting Fjord’s girlfriend over post-workout fast-food a couple of weeks later. If Fjord was her bro, then Jester was like the girly best friend she’d never had growing up. They hit it off immediately, and Beau would often find herself hanging out with the couple as much as her self-respect would allow. After all, she didn’t want to third wheel them _all_ the time.

The sound of Fjord letting out a sudden yelp pulled Beau out of her reminiscing. He was waving his hand in the air as if he’d jammed his finger on something. He shot an accusatory glare towards Veth, who was seated on the opposite side of Jester.

“Why do you even have that?!” he demanded.

Beau glanced over at Veth, their third companion, and saw that she had a rubber band suspended between her thumb and forefinger.

“Luc told me about it,” Veth explained calmly, unbothered by Fjord’s reaction. “Apparently it’s all the rage with preteens. They call it a ‘hornet’.”

Fjord brought his hand to his mouth and began sucking at the skin between his thumb and finger. Beau thought she saw a small welt rising there.

“Luc isn’t a preteen so I still don’t see why you have to have one of those things,” he muttered around his hand.

“Well,” Veth shrugged, “he’ll be a preteen someday, won’t he. I need to get ahead of the curve. Be a ‘cool mom’, when the time comes, you know?”

Beau watched as Veth mimed shooting Fjord again with the band, although this time there was no paper bullet loaded into it.

Veth had been introduced to Beau through Caleb. One evening, after one of their earlier shifts of community service, Beau had found herself lingering to chat with him at the community centre. In those earlier days, they weren’t yet as close as they were now, but they talked often enough to be acquaintances who were on their way to becoming fast friends.

That particular evening, they had been waiting in the parking lot, talking about nothing of consequence. Eventually, a large black Escalade had pulled into the lot. The driver had cut the engine and hopped out, and suddenly Beau had found herself being stared down by a woman who, on her tiptoes, might only just reach Beau’s chest.

“Who are you?” the woman had demanded.

“Uh, I’m-”

“Veth, this is Beauregard,” Caleb had cut in. “I told you about her, she’s a... friend.”

Beau had looked from Veth over to Caleb. “Wow, dude. Thanks for the ringing endorsement.”

Beau’s first impression of Veth had been that she was rude, jumpy, and overly protective of Caleb as if he were her own son. It had taken several parking lot meetings for them to eventually warm up to each other. Then, six months into the community service, Veth had surprised Beau by inviting her over to dinner one day after her shift.

That had been when things had really changed between the three of them. Beau had expected to be led to a tiny apartment in the city but instead had found herself staring in awe out the back window of the Escalade as Veth drove them to a lavish house in the suburbs. In a gated community.

“You didn’t tell me she was rich,” Beau had whispered to Caleb aggressively. “What is she, like, your sugar mama?”

Caleb had rolled his eyes at her, although he had certainly been at least a little amused at Beau’s reaction. “It’s nothing even remotely like that, Beauregard.”

Beau had come to learn that Caleb was living with the Brenotto family while he completed his own sentence. The specifics of both his crimes and his punishments had still been shrouded in a bit of mystery, back then, but as Beau understood it, the Brenotto’s had no concerns whatsoever about housing a penitent felon.

Beau had met Veth’s husband, Yeza, and her son, Luc, and altogether the five of them had had a really wonderful evening. Dinner with the Brenotto’s became a monthly affair, and occasionally Veth came to join Caleb when he and Beau went to the bar in town.

It wasn’t long after that that Veth had met Fjord and Jester, and the whole group of them had quickly become friends. Friday nights at _Dagen’s_ became a tradition that they approached with a religious kind of zealotry. It was something that eventually drew the attention of the owner himself.

Dagen ‘Underthorn’, as he called himself, was the owner and manager of the pub. A grizzled man with long, curly black hair and a gruff manner of speaking, he would often drop by their booth on Friday nights and check in with his regulars. Beau and her friends liked to think of themselves as his favourite customers, but he would never admit to harbouring a soft spot for them like that. No matter how many discounted pints he surreptitiously offered them.

They had yet to see Dagen that particular evening, which meant that he would probably make an appearance at the side of their booth sometime soon. He seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to bringing their table another round. Beau glanced at her friends’ glasses and noted that they were all nearly empty.

Before she could mention the next round to the others, Caleb brought up the topic of their community service shifts from that week. More specifically, he made a point to tell the others about the woman they’d met. Just like that, Beau was laser-focused on the conversation, all thoughts of Dagen and beer momentarily forgotten.

“Caleb isn’t even doing her justice,” she interjected as Caleb began talking about Yasha’s silent ride in the van. “She was-,” she paused and blew air into her cheeks, her eyebrows raising as she remembered seeing Yasha in the hallway, “-impressive. I liked her.”

“I would not say that she liked you, though,” Caleb added teasingly. He turned back towards their friends across the table. “She seems a bit... disgruntled. In a permanent kind of way. Less of a character choice and more of a genetic predisposition, you know?”

Fjord let out a deep chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he laughed. “Well, faced with the two of you on her very first day, I can’t say that I blame her.”

“Rude,” Beau muttered.

Caleb added a low, “Uncalled for,” under his breath.

Fjord, looking rather pleased with himself, rolled his shoulders before asking, “So, what’s she like, then? Must be quite the woman if you felt she was a necessary topic of conversation at Dagen’s.”

“Don’t make more out of it than it is-,” Beau began, but Caleb was already steamrolling over her.

“Oh, Beau is very taken with her. She is like-,” Caleb raised his arms and mimed flexing his biceps, an exaggerated frown across his face.

Jester’s eyes lit up immediately. “Your type, she’s your type!” she shouted, pointing frantically at Caleb’s impression of Yasha even as she directed her comment at Beau.

“She’s not – well – so what if she is?!” Beau shot back, her voice raising.

“Ooooh, is she-,” Jester lowered her voice conspiratorially, although it was still loud enough to be heard easily across the table, “- _attractive?_ ”

“Yes.”

The reply came in unison from both Beau and Caleb. Beau whipped her head sideways to stare at the man. He shrugged.

“What? I am not _blind_ , Beauregard.”

“Attractive and beefy, wow-,” Veth chimed in. “ _-_ _and_ a convicted criminal. Beau, you have such refined tastes in women. Wasn’t-”

“Do not go there,” Beau warned. Caleb, for his part, knew she was still a bit sensitive after his comment about Tori the other day. He shook his head slightly at Veth and she seemed to get the message.

“Alright,” she backed off, holding her hands up in fake surrender. “I’m just saying, shouldn’t you be looking for someone a little more... law-abiding?”

“I’m not looking at all,” Beau huffed in response. “I’m just saying. She was attractive, okay? I liked her because she’s very... very tough. A ‘take no shit’ kind of woman. Can’t I appreciate that without it being- being-,” she waved her hand in the air as if the rest of the sentence was hanging there for everyone to see, “-you know what I mean.”

Fjord leaned across the table and patted her hand comfortingly. “I, for one, think it’s very brave of you to be putting yourself on the market again after-”

“Oh, for-,” Beau pulled her hand away and slapped him across the arm.

“Hey!” he shouted as he pulled his arm to his chest. “Who’s being rude now?”

“Oh, as if-”

A gruff voice suddenly cut through their conversation. “Evenin’ you lot.”

All heads at the table turned towards the aisle, where Dagen Underthorn sat in his wheelchair and surveyed them all with discerning eyes. His curly black hair was half tied up in a top knot, and his mouth was nearly invisible behind the thick curtain of facial that covered the lower half of his face.

“Not about to start a bar brawl, are we?”

Logically, Beau knew it was a joke, but the no-nonsense way he’d asked them had her rushing to assure him of the contrary.

“Hell no, of course not, Dagen,” she promised him hurriedly.

Various assurances of “no” and “of course not” ran through her friends as well, and Dagen nodded in satisfaction a moment later.

“Alright. Well. Another round for you lot, I suppose? Same orders or trying something new?”

As he let his eyes settle on each of them, they each requested the same as before. Having gathered all of their orders, he nodded and turned back towards the bar, leaving them to their devices once more.

“Jester-,” Beau turned away from Dagen’s retreating form and towards the woman in question, “-did you ever get an answer out of him about Sheila?”

“Pfft,” Jester replied, waving her hand lazily. “No. He refuses to talk about it. One day, though... one day.”

Beau grinned as Jester’s eyes followed Dagen back to the bar. Beside her, Fjord let out an audible sigh and Veth leaned in closer to whisper in her ear, “You know, I think with the right pressure, we can get all the clues we need.”

Beside Beau, Caleb let out a soft chuckle as he brought his glass to his lips. “Just had to get them started on the mystery again, didn’t you?”

Beau shrugged innocently. “I figure they could use the fun.”

“And it had nothing to do with getting them off the topic of a certain woman?”

Beau patted Caleb on the arm and shot him a cheeky grin. “Oh, that was just a bonus.”

* * *

The sun was still up when they left the bar, although the sky around it was painted with the colours of approaching dusk. Not their latest night at _Dagen’s_ , nor their rowdiest, but a night well spent in the company of friends. They made a ruckus as they left, tearing up the evening air with the sound of their voices, talking and laughing loudly thanks to a couple of beers in each of their bellies.

Then, as they walked through the bar’s small parking lot, Beau caught sight of a familiar car parked nearby with an equally familiar figure standing next to it. Her back was to them but still, she was unmistakable.

Yasha stood next to the same beat-up old station wagon that had dropped her off at the community centre several days ago. The car was parked in _Dagen’s_ lot, although Beau didn’t think she’d seen Yasha or the driver inside. She was fairly certain that she would’ve noticed.

Yasha was facing the driver’s rolled-down window, leaning towards it with one hand resting on the roof of the car, the other dangling lazily into the window itself. It was an intimate pose, reserved for someone who must know her very well. Beau could see the same pink-haired man sitting behind the wheel.

“Speak of the devil, Beauregard. Isn’t that her?” Caleb asked loudly, in a betrayal of everything their friendship stood for. He was obviously not trying to be discreet.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want the group to meet Yasha ever but after a couple of drinks and a conversation about how much ‘Beau’s type’, she was, Beau didn’t think that right then was the opportune time. She wheeled around and slapped his arm.

“Shut up,” she hissed, but it was too late.

“Oh my _god_ , Beau, she’s like a viking!” Jester stage-whispered, her voice entirely too loud.

“Bet you’d like to climb that like a tree,” Fjord added as he nudged her shoulder playfully.

Whether drawn by the noise of her friends or some divine sense, Beau watched as Yasha turned her head towards them. Recognizing at least Beau and Caleb, she straightened from the car and cocked her head in curiosity at the group.

“Beau!” Jester squealed, “You weren’t lying, she is hot! _”_

Before Beau could clamp her hand over Jester’s mouth, Veth chimed in, “She looks like she would maybe murder you in her sleep.”

Somehow, Veth made it sound like a good thing. And, while Beau was busy trying to shush both Jester and Veth at the same time, she hardly noticed as Caleb, the biggest traitor of them all, began to wander towards Yasha with his hand raised in greeting.

“Hello!” he called out, his voice a little goofy-sounding as he let the word drag on a touch too long.

Yasha looked as though she were contemplating what would be the most appropriate course of action, but before she could so much as open her mouth to respond, the door of the car opened, smacking her softly in the hip.

“Hello!” A deep voice called in the same goofy greeting. Yasha shuffled awkwardly to the side so the driver could climb out. As he stood up he continued, “Caduceus Clay. It’s a pleasure to meet you."

Beau watched Caleb stumbled a little as he took in the sight of the man now in front of him. Tall, very tall, a well over 6-feet kind of tall, he was a lanky fellow who looked to be in his mid-to-late twenties. He was wearing rolled-up jeans and a navy blue knit sweater. His long hair was entirely pink, falling all to one side of his head with the other side buzzed short in an undercut. He flashed them all a pleasant smile. Beau was surprised to find it incredibly soothing.

In the time she’d been taking in the man – Caduceus Clay’s – appearance, the others had walked over to join Caleb. Veth was the first to speak, although her greeting fell a little short of a proper introduction.

“What, are you people from Giant Land or something?”

Fjord, standing beside Veth, nudged her slightly.

“Not the most polite way to say ‘hello’,” he muttered, before looking up at Caduceus and Yasha and smiling wide. “Name’s Fjord, and this is Veth. Don’t mind her, she’s a bit fiery on account of being that much closer to hell than the rest of us – oof!”

Fjord doubled over and let out a huff of air as Veth elbowed him clean in the gut.

“And this is Jester,” Veth picked up as though nothing had happened, pointing at their friend, “Fjord’s girlfriend, although she’s much too good for him.”

Beau watched as Caduceus let out a jovial laugh. “You’re all very funny. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I understand you know Yasha already?”

“Oh, only Caleb and Beau know her,” Jester told him as she pointed at her two friends. “They’re all in community service together.”

“Ah,” Caduceus nodded and ran his gaze over Beau and Caleb. “Yes, I think I recognize you from the other day,” he said as he made eye contact with Beau.

“I recognize your car,” Beau replied. “It’s very...”

“It’s got character,” Caduceus offered, a smile on his lips.

“It’s loud as shit.”

It was Yasha who said it. Beau turned to look at her. She shrugged nonchalantly, unbothered by the honesty of her words, and Caduceus shook his head wryly.

“Yes, it’s that too.” A beat of silence passed between the groups. Beau found herself searching for any topic of conversation she could lob into the ring, something to end the silence.

Jester beat her to it. “So, are you two boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Yasha was the first to react, letting out a genuine laugh at the question. It held none of the gruffness or melancholia of her usual voice. It was bright and unrestrained. “No, we are not.”

Caduceus, for his part, let out a small chuckle as well. “No, no. That kind of things not really for me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for assuming! I just thought because Beau said that you drive Yasha to and from the community centre-”

“One time,” Beau interrupted hurriedly. “I just- I said you did that one time. The one day. When we met.”

“Right,” Caduceus nodded. “Yasha is staying with me in the city right now, so I drive her to and from town when she needs it.”

“Well, that’s very nice of you, Mr. Clay,” Veth told him politely. She had to crane her neck to look up at the man. “And what do you do in the city?”

“Me? Oh, I’m a funeral home director.”

There was a beat of silence. Yasha shifted her weight from one foot to another as Caduceus waited for someone to reply. Fjord recovered first.

“Oh, well, that’s... that must be quite the day job.”

“Night job too, sometimes,” Caduceus added pleasantly, hardly missing a beat. “Death is not in the habit of waiting, you know. We like to think we’ll be ready and we like to think we’ve prepared, but the truth of it is that no one’s ever really ready. And no one’s ever really done all the things they thought they would.”

A sober silence followed in which Caduceus seemed to realize he was perhaps dampening the mood. He shrugged and added, “That’s not to say people aren’t at peace, though. Everyone’s different and it’s, ah, well, I can see maybe it’s not the most conventional Friday night topic for new friends.”

“I think it’s very interesting,” Caleb assured him politely. “It’s very... you’re rather young to be so acquainted with death, aren’t you?”

Caduceus gave another shrug. “It’s a family business.”

Another lull in conversation followed, and Beau took the opportunity to direct her attention back to Yasha. “Hey, uh, when’s your next shift?”

Yasha looked over at her. “Tomorrow afternoon at the library.”

Before Beau could reply, Caleb interjected, “Ah, us as well.”

Yasha looked between the two of them briefly. “Are you always scheduled for your shifts together?”

Beau was quick to reply. “Not always.”

Yasha raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. “Well, I’ll see you both tomorrow then, shall I?” She began to turn away and walk around the back of the vehicle, effectively ending the conversation. “Ready to go, Caduceus?”

Caduceus turned and watched Yasha make her way to the passenger side of the car. He turned back to the group and gave them an apologetic kind of smile. “Sorry about that, she can be a bit surly at times.”

Caleb waved his hand dismissively. “It is not a problem. We were the ones who interrupted your evening.”

“Well, I’m glad you did! What better way to end the day than by making new friends. I do hope you’ll be friends, I mean. At least,” he nodded at Caleb and Beau, “-I expect I’ll be seeing you two around quite a bit.”

Yasha rapped her knuckles on the roof of the car. Caduceus smiled at the group again before opening the driver-side door. “See you around then!”

The group offered their goodbyes as Caduceus and Yasha climbed into the beat-up station wagon. The engine groaned to life, and the parking lot was suddenly full of the angry clanging of the muffler and a concerning puff of black smoke from the tailpipe.

Caduceus gave them a sheepish grin through the windshield before he put the car in reverse and began to back out of the parking spot. Before he put the car into drive, Beau caught sight of Yasha through the glass. She was looking over at Beau; not the group, but Beau in particular. Beau watched as her eyes tracked up and down the length of her once, taking her in an appraising look. Then, she turned forwards again and Caduceus drove off into the evening.

“Well,” Fjord began once the sound of the car had more-or-less faded away. “They’re certainly a pair, aren’t they?”

Jester began slapping his arm excitedly. “A funeral home director! Fjord, do you think he’d let me see a dead body?”

“What?!”

“Well, I’ve never seen one! Aren’t you curious?”

“No!” Fjord shouted, aghast.

“If you want to see bodies, you should come to our house,” Veth spoke up casually. “Yeza and I keep plenty in the basement.”

She said it with a calm assurance that had Fjord whipping his head around to stare at her in disbelief.

“She is kidding,” Caleb assured him as he placed a hand on Veth’s shoulder. Fjord looked relieved for a moment before Caleb added, “they are buried out back, not in the basement.”

“Oh, for-,” Fjord threw his arms up in the air with a shout. “Heathens! All of you are heathens!”

He turned away and began to walk out of the parking lot, feigning annoyance. The others followed suit, laughing as they went.

It took Beau a couple of seconds to realize they were moving, her eyes still following where she’d watched Caduceus’ car disappear down the street. Someone called her name and she snapped out of her daze. She had to jog to catch up as the group carried on walking, their night on the town not yet complete.

* * *

Saturday morning came with the kind of haze that tends to follow a night of drinking. Not hungover, but groggy, Beau slept most of it away. When 11:30 rolled around, she faced the fact that she needed to get moving soon, and she threw the covers off her bed with an air of resigned fatigue.

Beau lived in the guest house at her family’s winery. She had been kicked out of the main house years ago, somewhere between her third and fourth theft. Not that her parents had known about those at the time, of course. The only reason she hadn’t completely moved away since then was because of the community service. Once it was done, she was gone.

When she finished her sentence, her record would be sealed, provided she didn’t fuck up on probation. Once her record was sealed, well... it wasn’t going to be a bandaid over all the things she’d done, but it certainly felt like it would come as some kind of deliverance.

Shaking her head to herself, Beau began to get ready for the day. The guest house was a narrow, two-storey building with her bedroom and bathroom on the second floor and a small kitchen on the first. The bedroom was small and humble and bare; undecorated in a way that gave the impression that she had already moved away.

_Soon._

She got cleaned up, dressed, and grabbed a bite to eat before heading out the door. The Lionett Winery was on the outskirts of town, occupying a not-inconsiderable amount of land and bringing in revenue for the townsfolk. Aside from the city, there wasn’t much else in their little corner of the world. Somehow, Beau’s father had found a way to pull his business out of the earth.

The drive into town was a short one, and soon enough Beau was pulling into the parking lot of the public library. It was an overcast day, the clouds thick and grey and promising to linger. It had her feeling like maybe a day spent shelving books wouldn’t be all that bad.

And there was Yasha, of course. Remembering that she would see her sent a spark of energy through Beau’s veins. She found herself tapping the steering wheel in anticipation as she pulled into a vacant spot.

Locking her car and walking towards the library’s front doors, she couldn’t help whistling as she went. She was in a good mood, despite the lazy start to her day, and she had a feeling that the afternoon was going to be a good one. Not for any particular reason, of course. It just felt like one of those days.

The town’s public library was a stout little building that sat next to a small bakery. As Beau walked through the library doors, the smell of freshly baked goods wafted over to her, scents of cinnamon and sugar. She hummed in appreciation before the smell of it was lost.

The inside of the library was old and a little depressing, but what it lacked in decoration and ambiance, it made up for in natural light and not smelling musty. It consisted of plenty of bookshelves, a small sitting area near large windows, two computers that looked like they’d come straight from 1998, and a kiosk near the doors where the librarian worked. The library was clean, pleasantly lit, and utterly empty, but for the librarian himself, Caleb, and one of the other offenders: Vanderwhal. Beau hadn’t seen him since the day he’d tried playing with roadkill. She desperately hoped that he kept to himself for the afternoon.

Yasha, notably, was absent. As Beau walked towards the kiosk and made to greet the others, the unmistakable sound of a protesting muffler could be heard making its way up the block. Beau locked eyes with Caleb and saw him fighting off a grin as the librarian, an old man named Tom, directed a frown towards the doors.

“What in the blazes,” he muttered under his breath.

Yasha strode into the library a few minutes later. She was wearing her typical black leather jacket with a red and grey flannel peaking out from beneath, and a white t-shirt. Her boots thudded heavily on the carpeted floor.

“Sorry I’m late,” she murmured before realizing there was no supervisor watching over them. She eyed Tom doubtfully. “Where’s...?”

“Mr. Fink is running late,” Tom explained. “I’m to set you to your tasks and watch over you until he gets here.”

Beau let out a sigh. “Typical.”

Niles Fink was the third supervisor of the custodial sentences at YORP. He was, Beau thought, in the most polite terms possible, a complete shitbag. It was a wonder he still had the job, but some things couldn’t be avoided in their tiny little town. Not many people were signing up to supervise criminals all day, and Niles had the unfortunate ability to make other people like him, somehow, when he obviously didn’t deserve it.

With the fourth and final member of their meager team assembled, Tom led them towards a back room that held several carts stacked haphazardly with books.

“These are all our returns that haven’t been shelved since Leslie went on maternity leave,” he told them as he puttered around the room. “You’ll be shelving them today since we really do need them back on the shelves, and I just don’t have the staff to do it. Leslie really was the glue holding this place together...,” he drifted off wistfully.

“Er, right.” Caleb ran his hand across a cartful of books. “Well, I’m sure this will keep us busy for the day.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure of that.” Tom nodded. “So, we use the Dewey Decimal System. There’s an infographic on the wall over there if you need a rundown of how it works. I’ll be at the front desk.” He turned away before he appeared to remember something at the last second, “-and do try to remember that this is a library.”

With that, he left them in the back room and returned to the kiosk.

“Well,” Caleb sighed, looking at the cartloads of books. “I suppose we had better get started.”

To call it a boring task would’ve been putting it mildly. It was brain-numbing within the first five minutes but Beau found herself toughing it out. The same couldn’t be said for Vanderwhal who, after a measly 25 minutes of half-assed effort, found himself a little corner in the backroom and cracked a window open so he could smoke cigarettes unnoticed.

Caleb, who was a self-proclaimed bookworm, ended up being about as much help as Vanderwhal. He lasted just over an hour, which was a feat in itself, Beau supposed, but then he too began shelving fewer and fewer books. Rather than smoke and brood, though, he simply wound up sitting on a flimsy stool in the back room and reading the books he was supposed to be shelving. With a little under three hours remaining in their shift, it was suddenly down to Beau and Yasha to do all the work.

It came as a bit of a surprise to her, if Beau were being honest, that Yasha stuck it out so wholeheartedly. It seemed as though she didn’t find the Dewey Decimal System all that intuitive. She was repeatedly checking the poster in the back, but at least she was actually getting shit done.

When Beau saw her frowning in front of a shelf in the main library, two hours into their task, she plucked up the courage to sidle up next to her. They hadn’t talked much at all given that Tom was liable to throw them dirty looks or point a shaking finger in their direction at even the smallest peep. Still, Beau couldn’t help the way she found herself suddenly craving Yasha’s attention.

As she walked up, she took a quick glance at the book in Yasha’s hand. It was a worn copy of Homer’s _Iliad._ She glanced up at the shelf. It held a row of books in category 200 – religion and mythology. Before she could say anything, Yasha broke the silence with a whisper.

“I know where it goes, by the way.”

Beau gave the library a quick scan. There were two people inside aside from them and Tom: a middle-aged woman reading by the windows and a teenager sitting at one of the old computers. Tom had his nose in a book. Beau turned back to Yasha.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to. You get a look when you want to say something. Your eyes bug out a bit.”

Beau’s mouth dropped open. “What?! I do not-”

“Shh!”

Beau looked over and saw Tom glaring at her from behind the desk. She winced and waved in an attempt at a silent apology before turning back to Yasha. The other woman’s lips were pulled into a smirk. They even threatened to split into a grin. Whatever indignant remark Beau had been planning to fire back died on her lips.

“You were teasing me,” she murmured.

Yasha tilted her head sideways. “You made it quite easy.”

“Wow,” Beau breathed. “She speaks _and_ she has a sense of humour.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Aye aye, captain,” Beau whispered. “So, if you know where it goes, why are you over here?”

Yasha held the book up and drew a finger along the spine. “It’s an 800, for literature, but it could just as easily go here, couldn’t it?”

Beau shrugged. “I haven’t been putting that much thought into it, I guess. But if you put it there then the numbers will be all wrong, so, there’s that.”

Yasha was quiet for a moment as she continued staring at the book. Then, she shrugged and turned away, wandering over to the literature section and shelving the book in its proper place. Beau cocked her head and followed as Yasha turned towards the back room. She needed more books to shelve anyway.

As they entered, Caleb looked up at them. Vanderwhal did not.

“I will help you in a minute, I promise,” Caleb said, holding up a finger. “I just want to finish this passage.”

“You’ve been staying that for over an hour,” Beau told him. “Give it a rest.”

As she spoke, Yasha made her way to another cart of books and began to load her arms up with a few to re-shelve. Beau walked over to her. “Hey, why don’t we just take a whole cart out and work through them together?”

Yasha turned to look at her and quirked an eyebrow. “You know we can’t talk, right?”

Beau shrugged. “I can be quiet.” She had the sudden presence of mind to throw a wink in for good measure.

Yasha let out a half-amused snort. “Right. Well, let’s go then.”

Together, they wheeled out a cart of books and began re-shelving what lay on top. They did pass the time mostly in silence since many of Beau’s attempts at conversation were either ignored by Yasha or squashed by glares and ‘ahem’s from Tom.

With one hour remaining in their shift, Niles Fink finally arrived. He strode into the library as though he weren’t three hours late and immediately struck up a quiet conversation with Tom. Beau watched as Tom gestured at the back room, and then over at Beau and Yasha. Niles tracked the motion before locking eyes with Beau.

“Shit,” she muttered.

Niles Fink was a tall, lean man with black hair and a strong jaw. He’d been told by many married women in the town that he could be a contestant on The Bachelor on account of his “handsome” looks. Beau thought he looked like a greasy skeez, and she had the personal experience to back it up. When his eyes met hers, she had to suppress a shudder.

“That’s the guy that’s supposed to be supervising us?” Yasha whispered.

“Yeah, he sucks. He’s an ‘avoid at all costs’ kind of guy, you know?”

“Huh.” Yasha ran her gaze over Niles and seemed to find nothing of note. “He looks pretty greasy to me.”

Beau looked sideways at Yasha with an excited smile. “That’s what I always say!”

“Shh!”

Beau shot an irritated look at Tom, who was shushing her from the desk as Niles walked over to them. “Goddamnit.”

“I see you’re hard at work, Beau. That’s good,” he told her as he arrived. His voice was smooth. Some women would’ve probably called it dulcet. Not Beau.

“It’s Beauregard, and you know it. I’ve told you a hundred times.”

Niles shrugged before his eyes slid over to Yasha. “And who is this tall drink of water?”

Yasha didn’t deign him with a reaction, or even a glance, as she continued shelving books. “I prefer whiskey, myself,” she murmured.

Beau felt her chest flush with admiration. A woman who liked whiskey and didn’t think Niles Fink was God’s greatest creation? Her lips pulled into a grin.

It only lasted a second as Niles replied easily, without missing a beat, “Whiskey’s fine by me, angel.”

That _did_ have Yasha’s hand pausing midway to the shelf. Beau let out an audible gag. “You’re such a fucking creep, Niles. Go away.”

“Can’t do that, baby girl,” he leaned closer, one arm sprawled along the shelf, cornering Beau. “I gotta sit here and watch you two for another hour, so how ‘bout you put a pretty smile on that face for me while you’re working away.”

It took every ounce of restraint in Beau’s body not to deck him in the face. She wanted to, he deserved it, and it would be so easy. As easy as it was for him to leer at her without consequence. But that was the difference between him and her: if she punched him in the face, consequences would follow. She was so close to getting out, to being done with punishment...

Yasha’s hand on Niles’ shoulder severed the moment. Beau let out a tense breathe through her teeth. Niles turned towards Yasha, intrigued by the sudden contact.

“Niles, is it?” Yasha whispered. She looked relaxed enough, but Beau could see tightness in her jaw and a vein beginning to bulge along her neck. Maybe she was struggling with the same internal conflict: to punch or not to punch.

“Mhm,” Niles hummed, looking Yasha up and down with a lecherous gaze.

“Great. I’m pretty new here and I don’t know the rules that well-,” Yasha’s hand tightened on his shoulder, “-so I really don’t feel bad about doing this at all.”

She pulled down on his shoulder as she drove her knee into his groin. Beau watched with absolute glee as Yasha had Niles Fink doubled over within seconds, a gasp followed by a loud groan escaping his lips. She let his shoulder go and took a step back as he wheezed in pain between the bookshelves. Beau sidestepped him as he staggered into the shelf beside her.

“You bitch,” he spat, when he was able to speak.

“Shh!” came Tom’s dutiful voice from the front desk.

Niles, still doubled over, looked up at Yasha, his eyes murderous. “I’m going to make sure they punish you for that. They’ll... they’ll...” He turned his gaze towards the floor again as he caught his breath.

“You do that,” Yasha told him without an ounce of concern. Then, she turned and began to wheel the cart towards the back room.

Beau followed quickly, leaving Niles a cursing, blubbering mess in the aisle. As soon as they got into the back room, Beau shut the door.

“Yasha, that was amazing! Ballsy and they’re totally gonna give you shit for it, but fuck, that was satisfying to watch.”

Yasha rolled the cart to a stop and turned, leaning back against it. Caleb, whose reading had been disturbed by their sudden entrance, looked up.

“What happened?”

“Yasha canned Niles,” Beau replied excitedly, gesturing over her shoulder back towards the main library. “Just now, it was awesome.”

“Are you serious?” Vanderwhal perked up from his seat by the window.

“Yeah!” Beau nodded. Vanderwhal looked to Yasha. Yasha nodded tool.

“Well shit, have fun picking trash for the foreseeable future,” he offered, before leaning his head back against the window frame and shutting his eyes.

Beau turned and saw Caleb wince. “He’s right, unfortunately. They’ll probably give you the worst shifts for a while.”

Yasha gave a half-shrug, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “What more can they do to me? They can’t add to my sentence without talking to the judge, so it all works towards the same goal anyways. Doesn’t really matter if I spend the time shelving books or picking up trash, does it?”

Caleb nodded uncertainly. “Sure... you might rethink that after a few days in a row on the highway, but I suppose the logic stands.”

Beau walked over to Yasha and slapped a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll be remembered as a hero.”

Yasha looked at Beau’s hand, then down at Beau. She raised an eyebrow in amusement. “So long as you don’t call me ‘your’ hero, I’m fine with that.”

“Don’t call you ‘mine’, got it,” Beau replied easily with a wink.

Yasha shook her head and rolled her shoulder, forcing Beau’s hand to fall away. “Is she always like this?”

The question was directed at Caleb. He’d gone back to reading but he answered anyway. “Pretty much.”

“It’s part of my charm,” Beau insisted.

“I think I preferred the silent part of the day.” With that, Yasha sidestepped by Beau and made her way toward the door.

“You’re going back out there?” Beau asked in disbelief.

Yasha grabbed a stack of books on her way by and shrugged. “Why not? We’re still here another 45 minutes. What’s he gonna do? Tell me not to do my job?”

With that, she pushed back out into the library. Beau watched her go before looking over at Caleb. He had stopped reading to watch Yasha’s exit as well.

“I have a feeling we may not be seeing her for a while,” he said softly.

“She’s right though,” Beau told him, “They can’t give her more time.”

“Not unless they take this to her probation officer.”

“For kneeing a guy in the balls?”

Caleb shrugged. “For assaulting her supervisor.”

“Oh, come on-”

“The thing is-,” Caleb continued, “-I truly don’t think she cares if they tell the officer or not. I don’t think she cares about the consequences at all.”

Beau turned back towards the door. She remembered Yasha’s conversation with Hector on that very first day, how defiant and uncooperative she’d been. Beau had taken it as a sign of rebellion.

Just then, something Yasha said stuck out in her mind.

_What more can they do to me?_

Beau frowned. Some of it was rebellion, maybe, but she realized then that there was an air of resignation about Yasha that she hadn’t noticed before. A self-destructive attitude disguised as defiance, as though Yasha couldn’t care less what happened to herself.

Beau found that the thought didn’t sit well with her at all and, in that moment, her victory over Niles lost a bit of its sweetness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me still screaming about that date. round 2 in the happy fun ball lets gooooo.


End file.
